


Storm

by Wyrdmazer



Series: Translated Works [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark-ish, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, Hogwarts, Inferiority Complex, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Scorbus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 19:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15395748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyrdmazer/pseuds/Wyrdmazer
Summary: My heart only beats to pump blood.





	Storm

**Author's Note:**

> **NARRATOR: Albus Severus Potter.**

When I saw him for the first time, I didn't know what just happened in me. It happened deep in the then uncovered depths of my unconscious. 

I was a kid. How self-observant can an eleven-year-old be?  
Even if they call him "that intelligent Potter", "that mature Potter". 

"That weird Potter".

I have black hair, like father, and green eyes. Like father. I'm as skinny as he is. At least certainly not less than he was when he was fourteen. I know because my mother keeps a collection of clippings from the old "Daily Prophets", among them one from the Triwizard Tournament (I am aware that she was obsessed. I can comprehend it with my mind, although emotions don't exactly catch up. But a collection of old newspapers devoted to father? 

_Cute_ ). 

Green eyes, green skin, fins and gills.  
Why does it, to date, evoke a bland feeling in my stomach – I don't know. I have never given it a deeper thought. 

I don't like water. Lakes especially. 

Ironic that I spend most of my life under the surface of one. 

Beloved Slytherin. 

The thing is, despite the physical resemblance to the famous Golden Boy, I am not mentally similar to him. 

_I'm silver._

For a long time, I was intrigued by everything that's happening in me. It used to be more remote and less intrusive, but when we started discuss astrology in our Divination class (I'm a minimalist. I don't throw myself into difficulties if I don't have to), moved by references to personality and behavioral mechanisms, I made a habit of smuggling books – mainly from aunt Hermione – on human psyche. 

I quickly stopped giving a damn about Divination because the way our teacher presented it was no less a distortion of logical reasoning than were the overmysticised lectures of Sybilla Trelawney, in my orientation. Pity. Still, the sentiment remained: who knows if I would have gotten pushed in the direction I did, without this. 

I've messed myself up throughout the years, and now, at the edge of my seventeenth, nostalgia occasionally bites me. I remember the old brightness and sweetness and ask myself if it could have gone differently. 

One of my favourite fragments of the unrecoverable past is That Day.  
Everything started from there.

He stood at the platform, with his parents. Like lots of other people. 

And at the same time, not at all. 

Pale, not very high. Calm. Only his eyes danced everywhere they could reach. It so happened that they fell straight into mine. I didn't smile. Neither did he. Time stumbled, fell and stopped running. I felt like I was looking into a book written in a foreign language. 

I felt like I had the exclusive right to get to know him – the only privileged being in the whole wide, high and deep universe.  
It felt like he was similar to me. 

Yet he turned out to be completely different, at the same time denying that fact. 

I've been studying him for years, closer, farther. I've been watching how he moves and how he speaks. How his lips caress the words born in his child's vocal cords; how his tone drops lower and lower, how he grows taller and taller, how his eyes become smoky, and his vocabulary – elegant. 

I watched him grow up. A juicy fruit on a proud tree. 

It took me a considerable amount of time to learn the language he lived, but when I finally felt like I figured him out, I understood one of those terrible, monstrous emotions that swam, like a voracious shark, just beneath my awareness That Day. 

_Desire._

He was different.  
Like me. 

He was distant.  
I walked similar paths. 

He was fresh in a new world. He was no one's.  
He could be anyone's. Anyone could grab his hand, chat with him, laugh with him and flood his life with themselves. 

_I_ could be that someone.  
He could be mine. 

Exclusively. 

I entered his compartment. He was sitting alone.  
I did a typical eleven-year-old, fresh-Hogwarts-student stuff.  
His hand was cold.  
His eyes were the colour of the frozen north, but they glowed with attention like a desert sun – all-encompassing. You could break into sweat in a matter of seconds. This sight is a bonfire, flames dancing with oxygen, stretching upwards, whispering coyly: "Come, come, let's breathe together". 

He smiled. I sat awkwardly beside him. He asked whether I wanted a Pepper Imp or a Liquorice Wand. 

It was nice. 

I didn't know then what I was getting myself into. I don't think anyone ever knows. It was a surprise gift that I was given to unwrap throughout years. 

Throughout the years, I watched him change. 

He hasn't changed much. We're in the middle of our sixth year and I still see in him that kind boy from the first day of school. 

And he still asks whether I prefer a Pepper Imp or a Liquorice Wand. 

I appreciate that: he knows me but assumes that he doesn't. I admire his fresh approach to the world.  
I'm glad that we have found each other. And that we've been sorted into the same house.

I would prefer Ravenclaw. For the first four years of school, I thought Slytherin was a hellish mistake. I don't know if it's _because_ I got sorted there, or if I would have morphed into Me also in Ravenclaw, however, I know one thing: 

I _am_ a Slytherin. 

With a handful of a Ravenclaw and a recently developing, like a weed, smidge of a Gryffindor. 

Turns out I walk everywhere – but on a simple, beautiful ground. 

Everywhere with _him_. 

Or rather, _he_ everywhere _with me_. 

I've always liked him. From the beginning of this – sixth – school year, though, it started to take on an unhealthy form of obsession. And I can only openly admit that to myself because I have him safely with me. 

Sometimes, I wonder whether he is a leech on my body or I am on his.  
I like either of these options. 

In the second week of the semester, he had cut himself during Herbology. Blood trickled thinly down his ring finger, just before, with a grimace of dissatisfaction, he interrupted it with his tongue and closed the pad of his wounded finger in his mouth. 

I watched him stealthily from above my pot, half-passionately fighting with the nasty Tentacula. 

The greenhouse can be _very warm_. 

The sun was shining. The golden reflects in his hair were almost blinding. 

For some reason, even the most basic magic concerning body causes problems to him.  
He casually asked for help. I didn't touch his hand when my spell stitched the broken skin in the blink of an eye. 

The cut was deep. 

That night, I started thinking of his inside in a completely fresh way. 

As a result, I experienced another great enlightening: I was not only hungry – I was _furious_.  
Because I knew that life would not serve him to me in the menu. 

And yet, it continued tempting me. 

The Apparition course – a few weeks after that so enlightening incident – quickly upgraded to a living nightmare. 

He swirled gracefully like a swan – he was even equally _white_. If not for those blasted black robes... 

It was not the first time I imagined him naked. 

His scent rolled over my face along with the dust as he disappeared and appeared, swaying, at the other end of the room. 

His excitement was beautiful. Show me the strongest incapacitating spell – I'll answer with this sight: a galaxy of hot stars in blue eyes, lips stretched in exhilaration... 

...and then he toppled.  
The spell broke. 

I sighed with a shadow of a smile, showed him thumbs up. I spun around and closed my eyes. Thick darkness pressed upon me. 

Then, out of nowhere, I saw him before my eyes. Again. He spun, disappeared, laid on the ground a few feet farther, but there was no black in his person. He was truly white. Like a beautiful, graceful swan that just for a moment forgot that gravity still exists. 

Shit. I opened my eyes, choked with air, and I was somewhere else, but a group gathered around me. I didn't know whom or how many people it consisted of. I only knew that the right side of my body hurt and then stopped. 

Splinched, they informed me. They asked if I was alright. I don't know, I replied. His worried voice came with the message that I was unusually pale.  
Probably I was. Snails crawled around in my stomach. 

I finished my first Apparition class with a crappy parody of a frail girl by going to the bathroom. 

"Scor, damnit, stay here! I'm fine, I'll be back in a minute."

Blue danced over my face, catching on green. His lips curled into an unflattering grimace, he nodded and returned to his appointed spot. 

A handful of icy-cold water over my face – when I stood in my white shirt over a white washbasin, in a white bathroom, thinking of his white like snow in full sun skin – worked better than a jump into a lake. 

Was it an awakening? 

In that moment, I realized that something was wrong with me. 

I didn't know what exactly, but I was paradoxically aware of the tone of emotions buzzing deep in my mind. 

_Deep._ Until then.

* * *

Even a beautiful swan is not perfect. Even graceful wings cannot carry and carry on forever. 

Many times, more or less unintentionally, he exposed his weak side to me. It gave me some orientation as to how soft his spine is. 

And with how little force it is enough to _press_. 

Once, in the middle of our third year, he got offended because I told him casually that he had inferiority complex. I was aware back then that he didn't know exactly what that meant, but he probably marched right away to search for information in the kingdom of shelves, parchments and words, because he didn't return until a good seventy minutes after the curfew. 

I sat on my bed. I was reading another book. Bright enough light falling from the tip of my wand. 

The curtains rustled, and then drew open. 

He looked like a cucumber that was cut into small strings and soaked in vinegar. 

"I hate you," he sighed quietly. 

And then, he crawled under the quilt next to me and snuggled into me. So very warm and... 

The question mark that took over my mind in that moment froze me for a good few seconds. 

The next morning, when an anonymous Gryffindor bumped into him – though a more technically correct term would be "threw himself on him" – on the way to breakfast, causing his heavy bag to slip from his frail shoulder and snap with the weight of several large volumes, I understood what he meant. 

Words and actions sometimes contradict. 

I've learned to watch his movements even closer. 

My father told me a lot about life. He could only share what he knew, and he didn't know the whole world. But he also told me that. 

I think I was lucky. 

He wouldn't tell me how to behave, but what people expect of you, and what can make you fall in their eyes to the level of a piece of trash. What can make them form an animal desire to crush you under the heavy shoe of their swollen ego. 

He taught me to think for myself, and not expect instructions and clean trays. 

When he recalled the Malfoys, it seemed like he was losing the sense of the present. Like he was going back in time and experiencing everything again. 

His eyes were shining and paternal. As they should be. 

I wondered if someday I would see the same in my reflection.

For now, they are just emeralds. Shiny, but empty. They reflect something from somewhere, but not from me. 

_No one would have anything to look for in them._

His name has two "S", but he is as similar to Slytherin, as I am to the Weasleys. 

I thought James understood me. He always snatched things from under my nose. 

Once, I gave him a _very_ special strawberry (I wasn't sure if I was even capable of such things. I was about eight years old). He writhed in pain, we went with him to St Mungo's. Father tugged at his hair, mother led some of the trainee healers to a nervous breakdown. Lily sat on a chair in the hallway, swinging her legs impatiently. 

I stayed in the room and watched the show. 

Suspicion is a conclusion.  
A conclusion is the product of the information you have. If you don't have an information, you can't use it to make a conclusion. To create suspicion. 

Who would suspect an eight-year-old child of poisoning his nasty older brother? 

Before they discovered what caused the whole drama, the problem evaporated.  
Literally. 

Those were barely innocent games. But when I first took a step in the Hogwarts Express, I knew I would not let my brother spoil the best time in my life for me. 

Scorpius was supposed to be mine. 

And he remained that way. 

No one else wanted him. I understand why, but at the same time, not at all. I felt like I was better than others – free from ridiculous prejudices. I discovered the treasure because I wasn't wearing selective glasses. 

I didn't even need a map. I was taught to use my own reason. 

I adore practicality. 

This is why I was never interested in bonding with anyone. Who needs these metaphorical chains? Why limit yourself by another person? Who needs such mixing of lives? Dedication... 

Not much convenient. 

Weak ones, who are not able to walk the life on their own and need support on every step, clearly find beauty in it. 

His only flaw is that he belongs to that noble majority. 

There is one not so small thing that redeemed him in my eyes: he wants to lean on _me_. 

It's my fault. I contributed to it. I taught him that. I was the only person to stretch their hand out to him not to hurt. 

I think he started to see someone very positively exceptional in me. 

Who is he? Where does he live? What colour is he? 

Ever greygreygrey. A splotch of white, a splotch of black. He created an appearance of equally simple and practical. I liked his glasses. 

That day, my image of his mind coloured with violets. 

I was aware before that he was soft. Hard skin on the outside, sweet fragility; creamy interior. 

We went out on one of the castle towers. He brought me there. A question popped up in my mind, whether this natural role exchange could mean something more. 

Occasionally, I forget that simplicity can sometimes be more complicated than simple. 

There was one floor left above us. He pulled me toward the railing. Words began to flow from his red from teeth lips.

He bit them all the time. 

It annoyed me. I could forget that I was supposed to listen, if not for that key, empty-full phrase that appeared early in his wobbly monologue. 

_in love_

Laughter – a side effect of something that I Cannot Name – was already bubbling up in my throat. But then, I replayed the following words. 

_with you_

"Me? With me?" I interrupted him, not paying any attention. "Don't worry, it's just a phase. Will pass when you go out, meet better people."

They say words can do more damage than anything else.  
Especially if they are served with downplaying or ignorance. 

I didn't forget back then that he was soft. It just surprised me that he told me that. I thought he would switch to someone else, that he would get bored and normalize. 

Why should I reach out for something that would have disappeared sooner than my desire? 

Love of comfort can be a curse. Just like everything. 

He surprised me only with one thing. How _very_ soft it is. How _very_ little it takes to _touch_ him. 

And leave a wound. 

"You could have at least let me finish," he murmurs. He sounds like something _in him_ just finished. 

"That would only be an unnecessary fatigue. Besides, words mean less than actions."

"You're generalizing?" His eyes cut through my skin. Ouch, it almost hurts. "There's something more, isn't there, Al? Why won't you tell me?" He sighs, walks over to the railing, stands with his back to it. His hands clench around the metal pipe. "Recently, you've been silent more often than not..."

He looks like a deep reflection. Submerges himself in his mind. 

I'd like to submerge myself _in him_. 

"Some people change, right?"

"Everyone does, Al."

He sounds dangerous. 

"Some do more," I insist. 

Something broke then. As if a precipice has been formed. I want to catch him, maybe he wants to catch me too. 

_Which one is closer to the bottom?_

(I'm afraid to reach out.) 

"You don't even want to try?"

He's the northern star. On the morning sky. 

"Some things change, but some remain. And I still don't do anything by halves if I care."

I wait for the bomb to explode. 

"What does that mean? I would allow myself an interpretation, but I don't know, maybe you're operating on different language now."

A stealthy laughter. 

"Figure me out the old way."

A moment of nonverbalism. 

"I don't understand you. I am here – you can see me. I told you it was long and strong – you can hear me I'm standing here – you can touch me. So what do you want that I'm not giving you?"

A guarantee. Paper and blood. A seal. Sealing wax. Chains and a key. 

And their complete absence. 

He's almost noisy. I can hear his breathing. 

"Time."

"Time," he repeats, but not like an echo, because his voice doesn't put the same value in the word as mine did. 

"Yes, cause," I spread my hands out, as if trying to embrace the space, "only time can tell how much the now is worth."

I regret a few things. Among them, high on the list, is the fact that I didn't learn spontaneity from him. That I didn't learn how to be open. How to not complicate things. 

"You do know that if you don't take the _risk_ , you will never know how much it _would_ be worth it."

He raises an eyebrow. I can see that he's fighting bravely. 

With himself. 

I shrug. I turn away from him. Fifteen steps. Hand on the handle. Ice. Creaking of the door. 

"You know what," I turn to him again. I can barely see him: he's only a group of dark shapes that create his body. "My notice has just been once again confirmed. You would feel at home in Gryffindor."

His silent: "I don't think I could have you in Gryffindor," barely reaches me. 

He walked around clearly dejected for four days. 

And then, one stormy evening, I purposefully drank too much whiskey and kissed him. 

He tasted of pineapple. 

I licked and sucked on his lips for a good few minutes. 

He let me. 

I felt the rhythm of his heart on his lips. They were throbbing, wet and warm. 

I fawned on him like a cat (I was marking my property). 

He let me. 

I almost sucked him off. 

He would have let me (he was so desperate?), but at that time we were occupying the dorms and someone violated our – true, poorly protected – privacy. 

I fell on the floor – Harry Creevey loudly expressed his displeasure that we were molesting his mattress, and Scor is still shy. 

I had a bruise on my left shoulder, where I collided with the edge of the bed. 

Creevey has not been able to put a sentence together without stuttering since then. 

I think I discovered that alcohol supports the skill of shooting curses. 

I also discovered that Scor's mouth tastes even better than it looks. 

Damnit. I'm doomed. 

And I'm doing this to myself. 

The following day was stiff. I wasn't overwhelmed with guilt or an anyway nonsense impression that I had taken advantage of him. 

I did him a favour. 

Sober, I would have had too strong brakes. I knew what I was doing, that night, before I felt the first tongues of fire in my throat. 

"You didn't have to do this, you know?"

He sounded like a king in check. For a moment, he could pretend that he was wearing a crown. 

_It is a considerable burden._

"I'm sorry. I wouldn't be able to do it any other way."

_Checkmate._

We both lost.

* * *

I feel like I'm in rehab. 

Appetite comes with eating.  
Only, without hunger, there would be _no_ appetite, in the first place. 

I got to know his taste.  
I began to dream more.  
To look.  
To listen.

To touch. 

Hand on the face. On the thigh. On the outside. On the inside. 

What I enjoy the most is how he would flinch and gasp in surprise whenever I would unexpectedly wrap my arms around him. My lips on his nape. 

I ruin his tie. 

The impression that he's fed up with me creeps into me like a predatory fog in the swamp. 

_I should kick myself in the arse._

I'm digging a hole under myself. Deeper and deeper. 

I fall into quicksand.

* * *

I tease him more and more effectively. At the same time, I never let his lips touch mine again. 

I'm leading us both to the edge, at the same time persistently remembering: _I'm doing him a favour; I'm doing him a favour; I'm doing him a favour; I'm doing him a favour._

I'm doing him such a nightmarish favour. 

In return, I get a bleak rain of distance. 

_He's slipping out._

Only to slip right back into my hands around the next corner. 

He's... dysregulated. (maybe it's hormones... Yes, no doubt I've dysregulated _us both_ ). 

"I know this is not the first time I'm asking this, but this time I would hope for something more eloquent than a shrug, you know," I say, completely calm. "Why won't you go to the Hospital Wing?"

"What, with that?"

"I doubt she has lots of patients."

A battle of glances. 

_I'll pin him down._  
_I'll crawl on top of him, he won't have a way out._  
_I'll ruin his tie–_

"You're probably not in the mood for honesty, but since you're asking for specifics..."

Maybe I'm paranoid, obsessed – whatever – but I can _feel_ his eyes glide over my hand. 

I let go of his arm. 

It hangs in the air for a moment.  
Then moves to his lap.  
My eyes follow it like a toy on a string. 

"Do you know why I can't do any healing spells?"

He pauses. He's creating a drama.  
Damn you, Scor, this is not a theatre. Playing with my emotions like that... 

_...if I had them._

"Because it's nice when you learn them for me... when you take care of me. I just miss it. That's why I cannot make myself learn them. And, yes, this _is an excuse_. So what."

He rebels. His face is storm in the distance. 

I'm starting to like the colour of his eyes on cloudy days like this... 

He's immeasurably more dangerous than a storm. He doesn't know this. 

In my favour.

"I've had the impression that you're fed up with me. I don't know what's gotten into me, but I thought, okay, if we're falling apart anyway, what's the harm? I was hoping," he snorts. 

The snake in me is slippery and wet. It comes out of the water and tightens its body around my head. 

"I understand your policy of actions over words. You want to prove to me that you wouldn't be able to be with me like that. Just after," a thunderbolt flashes in his eyes; thunder echoes in his voice, "you had let me know that you would like that. I know emotions are not your forte. I know. I understand. Really, Al, I do understand. But..." He closes his eyes, hangs his head. 

I lean more firmly against the wall. It's cold and hard; my twin brother. 

Sometimes, I feel the dolefulness that dead bricks understand me better than my best friend. 

I kill it and have blood on my hands. 

I'd like to wash it off. With his own. 

"I feel like you're putting more effort into pushing me away than... at least... at least maintaining what we _already_ had. Tell me, okay?" He looks up. Silence has fallen. (maybe it's just a trick – silence before the storm). "Just tell me what you want. I'm done with false hopes."

These are dangerously new courses, but one thing on the ship remained the same: he. Scorpius. Always sweet like honey. He thinks he understands me and then asks what I want. 

If he understood, he would not have to ask. 

Maybe he asks in principle. Maybe he actually knows, but just wants a final confirmation. 

I want him. And I can still have him. 

_Words._  
A few right words are the key in this reaction.  
_A handful of letters separates me from the precipice._

I'm a little at a loss for words.

"Words don't have to equal the truth."

He exhales indignantly. 

"You want to lie? _Get a grip of yourself, Albus._ "

A gush of cold, it brought storm clouds... ah, it's coming, it's coming... 

And it excites me. What will I see? 

For the first time, maybe, finally, I will meet his demon. 

_Everyone has one. It's impossible for even someone like_ him _to be innocent._

"Remember how I kissed you? That evening. It was raining and thundering. And I was quiet. That's the only way I can do it, Scor. You would not want anything more from me, believe me."

When he jumps to his feet, intending to interrupt me, I raise my hand. 

"Look at it this way: I care about you. Maybe we have known each other for years, but we don't know each other through and through. You will find someone... someone..."

"Stop it, damnit!"

I look at his face. 

Something _tugs_ at me. 

He's standing here: tears on cheeks, body trembling, blood hot under pale skin. Shaky breaths. 

And never before have I seen him more _alive_. 

He's beautiful.  
Like the first heartbeat (desperate). Like the first breath (shaky). Like the first  
scream  
(hopeless). 

Vulnerable, naked, stripped to the marrow.

"How–how dare you claim that I don't know what I want! Naivety? You've accused me of that many times. Inferiority complex? Fuck you, sooner _you_ 're projecting your own problems on me! I don't know what you want from me. But I know very well what I would like– And you know, at least I'm not afraid to fight for it! I'm lucky that the _love of my life_ ," he can't be serious, "seems to want to take this _step further_?" The snake in me hisses. Again. "So what! So what, Al, if you're still afraid of anything that's not written in fucking stone! How can I prove to you–"

A whimpering sound creeps into his words. He shuts his eyes.  
His hand on his face.  
_He's falling apart._

I watch him sink in his storm and something deep inside me responds. With delight. 

I relish in his suffering? 

No, certainly not, I'm not–ah, but yes, that, exactly, exactly _that_.  
A vampire. Hungry for blood. Hungry for life, will, heat,  
fire  
hell. 

He's so beautiful, so raw and transparent, not looking into my eyes and choking on silent tears, embracing himself with shaky arms. 

_So soft..._ I almost cannot believe. 

I want to come over to him and... 

do something to him. Do _something_ to him. Anything. See _more_. More of his juicy, delightful inside. 

I want to see – _finally_ – how _terribly_ instable he actually is.  
See everything he has been hiding so carefully.  
Stuff myself _full_ of him.  
Suck out every moment of his battle with himself. 

...forget who I am. Get lost in him _so_ much. 

If the roles were reversed, would he do the opposite of my thoughts?  
He always seemed... purer. But I don't know so much about him that I cannot be sure. Maybe he wouldn't turn out to be better than me.  
Maybe he's actually just as broken. 

_The rotten fruit fell to the ground. Fell from the treetop._

This prospect excites me. I'm _done_ with perfection, cleanness, order. Peace. Propriety. Fulfilled expectations. I want... 

I want _different_. 

Perhaps that's why it's only _now_ that he set me on fire. (I became his fire). Maybe he just seemed too mediocre before.  
Maybe I was unconsciously waiting to get to know his wild side. Unwrought by will, caution, obedience to norms. 

Unbaked, raw piece of meat. 

_How smooth is his skin?_  
_How salty is his sweat?_  
_How sweet is his blood?_  
_How fast is his heartbeat?_

_How can I speed it up?_

"Look at me."  
The lightness of my voice surprises me. 

He sighs, hides his face in his hands. Shakes his head. 

He looks like a child that has been spanked and is afraid to do anything for fear of a repeat. 

I'm drawn to his pain. He emanates it. It's like a siren song. I want to feel it on me. 

I'm by his side, wrapping my arms around his slim torso. I'm hugging him against me. _Devil's snare_. I absorb the tremors of his body. I listen to what the air racing through his airways whispers about. 

...inhale...exhale...inhale...exhale...inhale... 

He freezes. As if he just got switched off. 

...exhale... 

He's quiet. 

...inhale... 

Muted. 

...exhale... 

I rub my cheek against his forehead. His nose.  
My lips on his. 

_inhale._

My face borrowed his tears. 

He's beautiful. Trembling, wet, hot. Alive.  
I open my mouth, as though to take a bite.  
He parts his own, letting me in. 

Blood on his lips. Salty, sour blood.  
It was in his heart. Now it will be in mine. 

Something stuns me. Lightning. Rupture. Thunder.  
A wave of blood. 

Salazar's sake, _I want more_. 

Madness. Breaths. Trembling. His hands, my fingers. His fingers, my hands.  
...hot...hot...  
He's alive. Next to me. Against me. I press against him, wanting, craving, seeking, _needing_ ;  
and he's answering. 

He's everywhere. Around me, inside me. 

I don't know who, but one of us can't control himself. I can no longer distinguish his movements from my own because they mesh together.  
He infects me with _himself_. 

_I want more._

I unbutton his shirt blindly. I feel hot... hot... I search for his pulse.  
I tease him, his sensitive spots. My hands glide over his skin; he hisses, gasps; I know I'm leaving marks. 

Beautiful, scarlet marks. _I will try his inside in a completely fresh way._ Later. 

He reaches (carefully) for my fly.  
I let him. I'm hungry for him. Everywhere. 

"To hell with this," I pant, leaving a bloody stamp on his neck when long, familiar fingers are doing this fantastic, unfamiliar thing. They are paradise in hell, so uncertain, contrary to mine. I slide his pants down with an impatient jerk; they almost slip from narrow hips. 

His semi-erection caught on the waistband of his boxers. He grunts, equally impatient, slipping them down. 

I like him. 

I wrap my fingers around his hardening prick. He hisses. Gasps. His hand in my hair closes in a fist. 

The rhythmic movements of his hips help me bring him to this wonderful, feverish state. I touch him wherever I can; and I can touch him _anywhere_ because he's naked in front of me, next to me, right next to me. 

_A white swan... red-white._

His skin is salty. His pulse chases his breaths.  
He tastes like a victory.

His hand reciprocates and soon, soon ( _I don't remember time_ ) I get inexorably closer to the edge... 

Damn, it's too brilliant, has no right to end. 

I release his pulsing erection and tug at his arm. 

"Damn you, Scor; turn around," I pant in his fluffy hair. I press myself against him and him against the nearest wall (convenient). It's not distant but I hear how the impact takes away his breath. 

I swear when the warmth of the invitation to his most intimate place engulfs my prick. I rub against him. 

He's _so_ warm. 

My hands wander: one to keep his mouth busy, the other one to return to his hardness. On the way, I squeeze his balls lightly. He shudders instinctively and lets out a nearly loud curse in a violent exhale. 

Shit, I love him. 

His tongue caresses my finger, then two. He sucks on them like on a chocolate bar. Exactly like that.  
I always wanted to feel it myself. 

_Jealous of fucking chocolate._

I mutter words that coat the path that I will soon be penetrating with cool slipperiness. 

He almost bites on my fingers. 

"Mmh, it must be so cold, obviously," he breathes as I take my fingers out of his mouth a moment later. 

"Don't complain, you'll want _ice_ soon." I slap him on the arsecheek.  
_Sweet sound._  
Another slap. 

He gasps quietly, as if he wanted to hide it. 

_He's losing._

His hand dives; he begins to make jerky, rhythmic movements with it, and I know what he's doing.  
I grab his arms, press them hard against the cold wall on both sides of his head.  
The tip of my member violates his entrance. 

His breath hitches in his throat. 

He got it. 

I bite my lip and watch him open up to me. 

"Albus, damnit, not right away like that!"

I laugh softly, stopping. He does not realize it, _clearly_ , but after these words, the desire to push inside him all at once, immediately, awakens, stretches out and growls predatorily. 

_Slytherin... Slytherin... Slytherin..._ whooshes in my head – the cunning reptile. It wraps around the throat of the clawed gryphon. 

_Thhhhhhink_ , it hisses. 

I could ignore it. But will above instinct is reason. I understand what caution is. I understand that the predator must lurk before he throws himself on the unaware victim, before he sinks his teeth in its body. 

That the less aware it is, the _tastier_. 

It would be a bit of a pity, afterwards, that it happened like that. Because after all this, he could possibly not want to do it again. He could, because of this one – such small, small – mistake, snap out of that. Understand that he will never find his dreams in me like I find my own in him. 

He _could_ do it, it _is_ a possibility. But not an _acceptable option_. 

I _do_ have him. My hands _do_ have something to close around.  
I will never be left with nothing anymore. 

_Inhale..._

"Of course not, _Scorpius_." His name glides so beautifully over my tongue, like an agile snake. 

I bite the skin on his neck and shoulders lazily, and he hisses and gasps and _squirms_ as I stretch him in almost caressing movements. 

_I feel him from the inside. That's something new._

He seems to be losing himself in _this_. Only in this. Only now, that it's getting gentle and loving. 

(That probably means that he lacks _warmth_ here...  
Pity. _I don't have it._ ) 

This difference fascinates me. The quivering, dry fire from a minute ago turned into steaming boiling water. 

Which of these versions of him would I like to see next... 

Maybe both. 

When I enter him – really, really _enter him_ – it's incredible. It's surprisingly more than the senses. 

I have no idea where it came from, but then something comes out of me, some bizarre... _beauty_ , Slytherin; and I think I'm actually _Losing Myself In Him_. 

He's hot. Wet. Trembling. Quiet-loud. Loud-quiet.  
He's beautiful. Gorgeous. 

I don't know if that's what I wanted, but I know that now I don't want anything else. 

I'm sure that in the future I will want more. That I will never be sated. 

Now, there's now, and for the first time in my life, I'm swimming in such sheer thoughtlessness. 

I discovered something new.  
I found myself in him.

I've never felt more at home than here and now, buried deep inside his heat, the intimacy of his most tangible self. 

It's disgustingly over-romanticised, but it's honest. 

I thrust my hips slowly, in and out, in and out of his quivering, sweaty body. He's so warm against me, melting in his own heat with me. 

His moans are muffled and shaky, as if he was afraid of letting me know how much he loves what I'm doing to him.  
But it's perfectly clear.  
I find his prick, hot and heavy between his trembling legs, fully erect. It does something bizarre to me; I've gone mad. I squeeze and tug at his erection, maybe a bit too hard – he whimpers faintly – I don't know. But he clenches around me and gasps my name like it was the name of god himself. 

Fuck, he's _delightful_.

Reality gradually loses its intensity. My breaths interweave with his. Each inch of my body is rumbling; an echo of his own. Feeling sharpens and blurs. I'm learning to be with him.

It frightens me and I think I've just found a new addiction.

The harmony is chaos, chaos is harmony.  
I love him so much, and my blood's buzzing with unspoken words.

Before I know it, I'm on the blasted top of the world  
and I'm falling.  
Because I just found something else in him: relief. 

Unbelievable how sublime physiology can be. 

I think I just started to like him even more. 

And I don't care a hang about _anything_. If only I had _him_ close. Just like now. Just like that. 

He smells of sweat.  
He smells of _himself_. 

He smells of me in him. 

I want to breathe this smell in as much as I can. 

There are no more words. We are.  
I don't know what he's thinking. Maybe nothing.  
I don't know what he feels. I don't even know what I feel. I only know that it's too blurry for reflection. 

My brain has steamed up. 

_Scorpius Malfoy_ – dances in my head. _My Scorpius._ My new land. My secret island, my refuge among the storms and a storm in the midst of silence. 

_My new escape._

It will be scary. 

If I were him, I would worry about myself.  
Being me, I cannot wait. 

Love is the greatest passion. Hate differs from it only in colour. 

He's not _at all_ as similar to me as I once was to him.  
In my favour.

He'll forget that he wanted something different.  
My little wounded animal.  
I'll drink _everything_ that he won't hide from me. He's an oasis in the heart of the desert.

_A living drug._

**Author's Note:**

> So that was a translation of one of my works ("Sztorm"). I hope you enjoyed! As always, feel free to leave a comment! I'm always curious what other people think about my works. Some constructive criticism would be very welcomed, too!


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